Writer's Perogative
by vanillafluffy
Summary: One shot fluff -- take one hormonal writer, add tequila and a Johnny Depp film festival -- tongue-in-cheek fun ensues. Emphasis on the tongue-in-cheek part.


Obligatory mumbo-jumbo:

I don't own any of the characters contained herein, only myself, and I owe a good bit of that on old student loans. Suing me is completely pointless.

* * *

Sands is sitting on my bed, wearing black silk boxers and sunglasses, sucking down my tequila straight from the bottle. Even with healed-over bullet scars marring his carmel-colored flesh, el hombre is still muy caliente. If he'd just stick to the tequila, I wouldn't mind so much, but he lights up a cigarette, which is a major no-no.

"Sheldon Jeffrey Sands," I say sternly. "Put that thing out now! Those things cause cancer!"

He blows a perfect smoke ring at me. "I'm a fictional character, I don't have to worry about lungs."

"Well, I'm not, and I do, and this is still my house."

"You can't make me."

"Hey, I'm The Writer, buddy boy, and don't you forget it. If you don't put that out, NOW, I'm going to rewrite your fondness for black leather gloves into a fetish for bunny slippers and a fluffy tail to go with it."

"You--!" I know he wants to say "wouldn't dare--" but he knows I would. Carrots aren't nearly as macho as cigarettes, but under the right circumstances, they can be a lot more intimidating.

"Much better," I say as he snarls and stubs it out on the side of the tequila bottle. "Hey, come on! I'm not that hard to get along with. Didn't I make your favorite recipe for dinner?"

"In a crockpot? You're not supposed to make puerco pibil in a crockpot! You have to wrap it in banana leaves and bake it for four hours, and--"

"What, you retired from the CIA and got a job with the Banana Council? Trust me on this, when he puts out the director's edition, Robert Rodriguez is going to advocate crockpots as the perfect way to cook puerco pibil."

Sands snorts. "And you left out the habaneros! You can't--"

"Yes, I can," I sing-song, and he shuts up, taking another pull on the bottle and muttering to himself. One of the nice things about being The Writer is the ability to tweak a character to one's preferences, which is why Sands now has an affinity for plump blondes (not that he can tell I'm a blonde, but that's not the point) and hasn't shot me over my pibil techniques. Okay, so I've toned him down just a smidgen...but he's still my favorite anti-hero.

"Be like that," he grumps, lying down and pulling the blanket up to his chin.

I rescue the tequila and carry it out to the kitchen. Honestly, you'd think he'd be a little more grateful to me for giving him a second chance. Not everybody would bring a crazy SOB like that back.

I'm standing at the sink, rinsing off the last of the supper dishes when a pair of wiry arms in poufy sleeves goes around my waist. A warm body presses against me, and I catch a whiff of salt air as a husky voice croons, "How's it goin', love?"

I lean back and purr, "Just grand, Jack. And yourself?"

"Couldn't be better. Settin' sail for the sequel, so to speak. Where you keeping the rum these days?"

I sigh. "Same place it's always been. Icebox, second shelf. Leave some for me this time, will you?" I don't mind the Sands/tequila situation---I only cook with the stuff, I don't drink it, but I'm going to start hiding the good rum---Captain Jack and Captain Morgan are an expensive combination.

Steering Jack out to the living room, we settle onto the couch for some very satisfactory snogging. I ease his hat off and run my fingers through his hair, playing with the exotic coins and beads braided into it, and jingling the little silver bells. It's like having a very large tomcat on one's lap...Jack is arching against my fingers the same way a pleased feline would, although the cat probably wouldn't be chugging rum at the same time.

He's being droll and charming and flirtatious, and I'm enjoying myself enormously, right up to the point when he passes out in the middle of my cleavage. "Jack? Hello?" A snore is his only response.

"Blankety-blank bloody Disney heroes!" I mutter, trying to get out from under him. Try as I may, I still haven't been able to over-write The Mouse's G ratings.

With Jack zonked on the sofa, and Sands sulking in my bed, I trail off to the guest room. Opening the door, I stop in my tracks, momentarily speechless. The room glows by candlelight, and there are rose petals strewn across the bed.

With Don Juan kissing my hands and murmuring endearments, I figure my luck is about to change. "Ah, such splendor!" he says, with that adorable accent. "Your skin is as tender as the rose petals I would shower upon you, my darling! Such an exquisite blossom, which must be cherished for its rare loveliness..."

Oh, this does a gal's ego good. He gives a first-class foot massage, working his way upward with leisurely grace, all the while telling me how unique I am, how special...I'm just eating this up. When he finally makes his move, I surrender to his lips, waiting for a long, passionate kiss as prelude to our lovemaking.

And waiting...and waiting...he never shuts up long enough to really kiss me, and I don't know about you, but sex without kissing just misses the mark. (Sometimes, I think the sound of his own voice is what really turns him on.) I manage to convince him that I'm on Cloud Nine, but the fact is, I'm still at the airport, taxiing in a holding pattern. Don Juan falls asleep with a smile on his face, and I slither out of bed, blow out the candles, and sneak into my office.

I'm resigned to sleeping in the recliner tonight, but I've no sooner picked out a good book, than a low whistle from the doorway makes me look up. Oh, goody, somebody who already likes blondes, no tweaking needed.

"How lovely to see you again, Constable Crane!"

"Ichabod, please. I can't get over what a marvelous library you have." He gazes around the book-lined room in bemusement.

"Absolutely essential for the proper development of one's Writing," I reply. For some reason, my syntax acquires a rare formality when I'm with him--it's bad when characters start rubbing off on their Writers!

I stroke his cheek, and he gulps nervously. "How have your sessions with Doctor Mickler been going?" I inquire. Since his success with Don Juan, the good doctor has begun a private practice, and has been treating Ichabod for anxiety-related disorders.

Ichabod struggles with the words. "That's one of the reasons I'm here. Tonight, I mean. I am endeavoring to conquer my timidity with regard to--that is to say--I had thought that perhaps--"

"You want to try again, huh?"

Gawd, he's so cute when he blushes like that! I finally get the kiss I've been wanting, tender and sweet.

Matters are proceding in a much more satisfactory manner than they did the last time he paid me a visit. I actually get his cloak off and nudge him into the recliner. He hasn't fainted yet, and I've got one hand behind his head stroking his hair while my other hand is unfastening buttons as fast as it can. This is amazing. To think that Ichabod, of all people, is the guy who's actually going to get the job done. In my enthusiasm, I lean a little too far forward, and the recliner goes over backward.

Ichabod shrieks and faints dead away. I give up! I stomp into the bathroom for a cold shower. I have never had such so much rotten luck with men at one time in my life!

Shivering under the chilly onslaught, I hear the door to the medicine cabinet scrape open, and through the frosted shower curtain, can make out a dark-haired figure standing there. Hmm, is it Jack, looking for aspirin, Don Juan after his meds, or Sands--god, what would Sands be looking for in my medicine cabinet? Probably razor blades or something equally sinister. Fortunately, the most evil thing in there is dental floss. (I don't doubt he could find numerous creative uses for that.) I hear the rattle of a pill bottle.

Then the shower curtain slides back, and Inspector Frederick Abberline sticks his head in. "I beg your pardon, but where would I locate a vial of laudanum?" I hastily adjust the water temperature to something more soothing.

"They don't make laudanum anymore, I've told you that." Yippee, this one is starkers--the bathtub scene was my favorite part of that movie!--and he climbs into the shower with me with hardly any coaxing at all. Did I mention the Writer's Perogative? After all, one doesn't actually see anything in the bathtub scene, so I'm free to take liberties with certain details. And believe me, I'm very detail oriented, all part of being a Virgo.

"That feels wonderful," Frederick sighs as I shampoo him, paying special attention to his sideburns. He's got the most divine accent, and he's lean and smooth and I love my full frontal imagination!

Squeezing soap into a shower puff, I get him all nice and soapy. He returns the favor a moment later. He's leaning against me, scrubbing my back, when I realized he's stopped scouring and isn't just leaning on me. With a grunt, I push him back against the wall and let him slide down it to sit in the bottom of the shower. His eyes are out of focus. Oh, for crying out loud!

Turning the water off, I step out of the shower and grab a towel. There, beside the sink, caps off, are bottles of Don Juan's meds and some hydrocodone left over from my last dental surgery. No wonder he's out like a light. I say several unladylike words Sands has introduced to my vocabulary, as well as a few of Jack's saltier oaths.

Hoping I can get Frederick in to see Dr. Mickler for his chemical dependencies, I scoop up my clothes and the wet towel and wander out to the laundry facilities in the attached garage. It's a good thing the Doctor is just practicing to keep his retirement interesting; if I actually had to pay for all this, I'd have to hock my computer. So far, he's got Don Juan (well, actually, he already had Don Juan), and now he's got Ichabod (anxiety disorders, as I mentioned earlier), and Sands (post-traumatic stress and sociopathic tendencies, not to mention trust issues!)---plus now I need to refer Abberline, provided I can talk him into it.

I set the washer for a load and toss my burden in. There's an apologetic cough, and I look up to see a tall figure in snug black leather standing there, the handle of a small suitcase gingerly hooked over a sharp digit.

"Good evening, Edward," I say resignedly.

"Hello," he says softly. "I hope this isn't a bad time."

Well, I certainly haven't been having a good time, but he's so young and baby-faced and his reaction to an unkind word always makes me feel like I've just kicked a defenseless puppy; a cocker spaniel, or something else with big brown eyes and a sad face.

I pat his shoulder and fluff up his hair a bit. "Not at all, Edward. It's good to see you." I reassure him, and stand on tip-toe to peck him on the cheek, still damp and not wanting to get the leather soggy. "What can I do for you?"

He lifts the suitcase. "You're The Writer, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am."

"I went back up the castle, I thought maybe you could make these work, somehow..."

His real hands, I think with a pang. I hold the case for a moment, drawing on my powers of imagination, trying to figure out the best way for something like this to work. When I think I know how the connections should attach, I open the box slowly to make sure my creativity has been superimposed on the items within.

I hastily shut the case, blinking. I had completely forgotten--at least, I thought I'd completely forgotten--the porno take-off on "Scissorhands", but apparently my subconscious has been working overtime. (Oh, phooey, who am I kidding? At the rate things are going tonight, the batteries are going to be dead anyway.)

"Is everything all right?"

"Just peachy," I say as cheerfully as I can, taking a deep breath before reopening the case and going to work. It takes about five minutes; and half of that is spent trying to find a phillips screwdriver. "There, how's that?"

He beams and flexes his new hands. "Thank you! Thank you so much!" I have to smile back at his joy; his whole face has lit up. I hug him and he hugs me back and yes, people, I am still straight-from-the-shower naked and he's only about nineteen and that is a mighty potent combination.

Unfortunately, I'm right; the batteries are dead, and the only 9-volt in the house is in the cable remote, and it's terminal, no pun intended. "Sorry, Edward," I sigh. "I'll get fresh batteries in the morning, I swear."

"Do we really need batteries?" he asks me doubtfully. "I am anatomically functional."

I perk up. "Really? Fantastic! Edward, I'm so glad we could help each other out!"

He's nineteen, and I'm not. By the time he's finished helping me out, I'm practically cross-eyed, but in a much better mood. Now all I have to do is figure out where to park him for the night. Definitely not with Sands, that could get ugly. Jack has taken over the couch, the recliner is occupied by Ichabod--that pretty much narrows it down to the guest room. I figure the worst that can happen to him in with Don Juan is some mildly disturbing slash. (At least it won't be literal.)

I wind up sliding back into my own bed, next to Sands, and yanking the blankets away from him. He's such a bed hog! He hangs on for all he's worth until I invoke the magic words: "Bunny slippers!" Wrapping the blankets around me, I snuggle into bed and as I drift off to sleep, hope Sands doesn't decide to do anything evil with dental floss.

FINITO! 


End file.
